Seamus watched the post commander gaze down at his papers without seating himself at the desk. Dumbfounded, he took two steps closer to that desk. “Did I hear you right, Colonel? Until I leave the post?”
Wessells put both palms flat on the desk and leaned toward the Irishman. “You heard me correctly, mister.”
“On what grounds are you throwing me off the post?”
This time Wessells settled into the horsehair chair before speaking. He seemed self-assured as he gazed up at Donegan. “I’m having you removed from this military reservation for the good of my command and the morale of the men assigned a task in this godforsaken wilderness.”
“The good of your command?” Marr joined Donegan in glaring at the officer.
“Winter in this country is not a good time at all to have someone of your color here, Mr. Donegan. The lack of activity, the length of the nights … all of that goes a long way to making my men restive. Prone to excitement. You’re just the sort of excitement I can do without.”
Seamus shook his head, gazing from Ten Eyck to Marr. The captain found a place for his eyes on the far wall so he would not have to meet Donegan’s glare. Marr wore a look of undisguised anger matched only by the Irishman’s.
“What do you suppose he’s to do, Colonel?” Marr demanded at the edge of Wessells’s desk.
“If you’re asking how Mr. Donegan’s to survive in this wilderness, you have every right to know.”
“You bet I wanna know!” Donegan barked, beside Marr now at the desk, his big hands clenching at his sides, seeking something to throttle. From the corner of his eye he watched Lieutenant Jenness free the mule-ear on his holster.
“You’ll not need that pistol!” Seamus snapped without looking over at Jenness. He straightened. “Your post commander’s in no danger … at least from the likes of me, Lieutenant.”
Wessells’s eyes darted between the two, coming to rest on the Irishman. “Well,” he gulped. “I’m certainly not going to be guilty of driving you from this post without a means for you to survive in this godforsaken winter desert, Mr. Donegan.”
“Oh?”
“I have need of someone of your … talents, shall I say.”
“Talents?” Donegan asked, his eyes flicking momentarily to Marr.
“Most definitely. A man of your resolution. Your undoubted strength. Your determination in the face of great odds—as witnessed by your repeated attempts to take on the soldiers of this post—”
“After I’ve been drinking some.”
“Be that as it may, Mr. Donegan,” Wessells continued, “it’s just that determination I need.”
“To do what?”
“Make your way to Fort C.F. Smith.”
“Fort Smith?” Donegan’s voice rose an octave. “Hear tell that’s ninety miles north of here on the Bighorn River. Through this snow and cold?”
“We’ve had no communication with that post since November last. For over three months the two posts have been shut off from one another.”
“So you want me to ride up there and say how-do?”
Wessells grinned. “You, and two of my best men who will be going along.”
“Three of us.”
“That’s right. Carrying mail and dispatches for the men and officers at our northernmost outpost on this road to the Montana gold camps.”
“Why haven’t you had any contact with Fort Smith before now?”
“Mr. Donegan, surely you’re aware I took command of this post from Colonel Carrington little over two weeks ago. I can’t explain why the former District Commander failed to open communication with Fort Smith. But I can tell you I will surely try.”
“You haven’t explained why you haven’t had any contact.”
“Until now, Mr. Donegan—we’ve had no volunteers.”
“Vol—Volunteers?” Seamus snorted. “You bleeming idjit! I’m volunteering?”
“No,” Wessells snapped. “Two of my sergeants have volunteered to break their way through to Fort Smith and return.”
“And you want me to ‘volunteer’ to go with them?”
“You can volunteer … if volunteering would make you feel better.”
“I don’t have another choice, do I?”
“You’re smarter than I gave you credit for, I suppose. Seems you’ve begun to see things in a better light, and quickly at that, Mr. Donegan.”
“All right. Say I go with your two sergeants—”
“Grant and Graham.”
“I go with them to your Fort Smith and back again—then what?”
“Ah … no. You’ve misunderstood. Grant and Graham will be returning here to Fort Phil Kearny.”
Donegan waited a moment for Wessells to continue. “Ahhh,” Seamus finally sighed, “I see. I’ll be staying behind at Fort C.F. Smith.”
“Correct.”
“And while I’m there?”
“You’ll support yourself as you have here. You will carry my notice to the post commander there, informing him of your need for employment.”
“And telling him why you’ve thrown me out of Fort Phil Kearny.”
Wessells nodded, swallowing. “Captain Nathaniel C. Kinney would naturally be curious as to why you couldn’t work the winter here.”
“He’ll love you for sending him a troublemaker like me, won’t he, Colonel?”
“I suppose he has little choice.”
“About as little as I.” Donegan sighed. He looked at Marr. “Say, Cap’n … no sense being so dog-faced ’bout this. I’ll be that much closer to the gold camps when we’re ready to make ourselves rich men!”
“Want me go along, Seamus?”
“Naww.” Donegan glanced at the fire in Wessells’s eyes. “You stay put. The Wheatley woman needs someone to watch over her and the boys.”
Marr scratched his chin. “I’d clean forgot about the widow. You best go explain this to her yourself.”
“I intend to. Soon’s the brass monkey here’s done with this stupid Irishman. When’re your men fixing to leave on this little trip of yours, Colonel?”
“In the morning.”
“Of course,” Seamus replied, nodding. “Not much time for this mick to get himself in trouble, is it?”
Wessells nodded once.
“I’ll be here before first light.” Donegan saluted.
The gesture evidently surprised the post commander. Before he realized what he was doing, Wessells started to salute, catching his hand before it slapped against his forehead.
“We’ll be expecting you, Mr. Donegan. Dismissed.”
* * *
“Won’t it be dangerous?” Jennie Wheatley asked, handing the steaming cup of coffee to Donegan.
“Not much a man does in this part of the world what isn’t dangerous, Jennie.”
She sighed, settling in the other chair with her own cup. After sipping at the scalding liquid, she tried a valiant smile. “At least I got you to calling me Jennie these few days we had together.”
Donegan returned her smile. Already he ached. “I’ll miss you … the boys.” He spoke quietly, glancing across the room beyond the blanket partition where Jennie’s boys lay on their straw tick, peeking over the covers at him.
“The boys will miss having you bounce them on your knee, Seamus.”
An uneasy silence grew between them as Jennie stared into her cup and Seamus sipped at his, eyes smarting already.
Such a thing is never easy, he reminded himself. Your time with Jennie is yet to come. Let things be. Just, let them be.
“You’ve done well fattening me for the journey.” He tried out a smile on her.
That did it. She smiled back, her eyes filling. “You look a little healthier than the day we buried … the day I met you.”
He cleared his throat. “Not been fed so well since I left my mother’s table years ago.”
She giggled lightly in that way of hers that was like mountain water over a pebbled streambed, eyes shining with moistness. “Nor eaten so much,
I’d imagine.”
“I don’t remember ever passing up a meal, Jennie.”
“Surely not a free one, Seamus.”
He laughed with her, then fell quiet, gazing at her dark, almond eyes, studying the moist, pink lips formed in a pouty bow and the high-boned cheeks rouged with heat from the fireplace. The ruddy ivory of it all surrounded by a cascade of auburn curls. “Never would I miss a meal with a lady as beautiful as you. If only to drink you in with my eyes.”
The color in her cheeks darkened. Her eyes fell from his, staring once more at her coffee. “I remember once … once you drank in all of me, Seamus Donegan. Down at the creek when I was … bathing.”
“I felt like such a beggar that day … peeking at you from the willows. Gazing at your … your beauty. I’d watched all day had you not spotted me.” Suddenly Seamus was struck with the feeling he had done something wrong. “Did I say something … something I—”
She glanced up, eyes moistening, and shook her head. “No, no, Seamus. Nothing wrong. I’ll miss you so.” The sob caught in her throat. She swallowed it down like something bitter. “The boys will miss you so much.”
“Cap’n Marr will be by to see how you three are doing.” Seamus’s voice sounded rough, hiding the thick knot that threatened to betray him. He set the cup on her table and stood, sweeping up his coat.
He watched her eyes as they implored his, their moist depths betraying some small fear in them at his leaving so abruptly. “I best be going, Jennie. An early start. No telling what the day will bring. No telling how hard—”
She dropped her cup to the table and struggled to help him into his heavy, double-breasted coat. Standing before him, Jennie Wheatley slowly shoved each of the eight huge buttons through their holes. He looked down at the top of her head as she worked her callused fingers at their task. The crown of her auburn curls almost reached his bearded chin.
So close. This smell of her. Never closer than this moment. His mind burned with the fragrance … the feel of her inches from him.
Seamus crumpled the brim on his big hat, yearning. A man who had had his way with women for years, first initiated into the wonders of pleasure as a boy who looked and performed as if he were much older. For such a man to feel this unsure, this nervous …
She’s dangerous, Seamus Donegan. Making a man like you feel the way you do about her.
For the longest moment she stared up at him, bottom lip caught between her teeth. “Aren’t you going to kiss me, Seamus Donegan?”
“Kiss you?”
“To say, good-bye?”
“Good-bye?” His cheeks burned.
“Until you return … to me?” The first drop slid free from her pooling eyes.
He swept her into his arms, holding her against him fiercely for long minutes. Over the top of Jennie’s head he watched one set of dark eyes peeking over the covers at them by the door. At last Seamus held her away from him.
She raised her face, ruddy cheeks stained with glistening tracks. “Put your mouth on mine, Seamus.”
He had never needed so much prompting. Not knowing at this difficult moment if he hesitated because she was barely more than a month a widow. Or, if he hesitated because of the boys. A man used to stealing kisses and feeling no remorse when he was slapped, Seamus Donegan felt his own cheeks warm again as he bent over her opening mouth that invited him to taste her.
Jennie pressed into him, her small, full breasts straining against the heavy wool shirt she wore, straining against him as he clutched her every bit as eagerly as he would driftwood in a raging torrent. When his mouth met hers, Jennie’s lips opened more fully. Greedily he drank in the taste of her, sensing the tingle race across his loins. Seamus felt her shudder as well, just before Jennie took hold one of his hands, bringing it from the small of her back, slowly around the fullness of her hip. She placed his hand on her breast.
He trembled as he drew back, ready to curse himself for his stupidity, had she not spoken first.
“Seamus,” she whispered huskily. She still imprisoned his hand against her breast straining beneath the oversized wool shirt. Her husband’s wool shirt. “Please.”
He shook his head, bewildered, wondering for a moment what made him refuse. “I’ve never had … such a delicious offer, Jennie. I … I can’t.”
“I need you.”
“Not like this … not so soon.”
“Please—”
He clutched her against him roughly, smoothing her curls with his rough, gnarled hand. “Ssshhh,” he whispered. “I’ll be back, girl.”
“You’ll … you’ll be … with me when you return?”
With a finger he raised her chin so he could gaze down into her eyes. “Count on it.”
“Hurry back to me.” She whispered the words prayerfully, eyes closing. Her lips parted again.
Seamus dipped once more into the taste of her full-mouthed headiness, lingering there for the longest time before he turned and threw himself into the night.
Chapter 4
“For a g-goddamned Irishman, you’re all right,” Noah Graham stammered with cold lips, smiling. He blew on his bare fingers, watching Seamus Donegan feed the struggling newborn flames of the tiny fire he was building beneath the overhanging bows of a pine out of the howling wind.
“We get this fire going, get some water a’boil,” Seamus replied. “Got to get something hot into Grant here.” He nodded to the soldier seated next to Graham, who stared dumbly at the fire near his feet.
“He’s a good man, really he is, Donegan.”
Seamus glanced up at Graham. “No question of it. Any man volunteer for this duty … got him bullocks as big as a herd bull.”
“That, or he hasn’t got the sense got gave a buffalo gnat!” Graham stammered, his teeth chattering.
“You know why I’m trudging off to Fort Smith.” Seamus held his bare hands over the fire a moment, then went back to snapping twigs into the growing fire. He gazed steadily at Graham. “What leads a veteran like you to chance this cold walk?”
Graham swiped a hand beneath his red nose, taking with it a cold, drippy pendant the color of a pearl. “Chance to get out of that damned post. Simple as that.”
Donegan snorted. “You gotta be joking, Graham.”
“Bound to go crazy … snowed in the way we were. Both of us, we knew Wessells been asking civilians for volunteers. No man would touch it for less’n a thousand in gold.”
“And the three of us sit here on our asses,” Seamus said, waving his arm in an arc, “in the middle of this goddamn winter—doing Wessells’s work for free. We oughtta have us a drink to commemorate the occasion.”
“If we had any, I’d join you.” He hung his head, then glanced at Grant beside him. “Probably drink his too.”
Seamus stuffed a hand inside his wool mackinaw. “He needs it worse’n us both together.” And pulled out a battered tin flask. He worried the cork from it, to Graham’s astonished expression. The fragrance of the raw whiskey escaped the flask.
“You’re shitting me, ain’t you, Donegan!”
“Give a taste,” Seamus suggested, handing the flask to Graham. “Then see if you can get some down him.”
As he dribbled some on Grant’s half-frozen lips and tongue, Graham continued. “We get out of this, I’ll damn sure remember this winter as the coldest I ever seen.”
“That’s why you need Irish blood pumping in your veins, Sergeant. Irish blood keep a man warmer’n most.”
“A good woman would do me every bit as much good as Irish blood.”
Seamus nodded, recalling the fragrance of her but a handful of hours ago. “No argument there, Sergeant. No argument there.”
It had been a sleepless night for Seamus Donegan after leaving the widow Wheatley, tossing under his blankets in the civilian quarters, waiting for the first hint of dawn, remembering the double-barreled feel of her pressed against him, and cursing himself for ever leaving the excitement of her. Finally admitting it was the only thing
he could have done.
In Wessells’s office that morning before dawn, the stove had begun to warm and there was hot coffee poured into steaming cups and as quickly poured into empty bellies, joining old hardtack and some pasty, ancient jerky. The remainder of the trail food had been packed in some canvas satchels by the two sergeants and a private who had volunteered to come along, wanting to see a friend up at Fort C.F. Smith. The satchels and four sets of snowshoes had been lashed to their mules.
With another check of the big gray’s hooves and shoes, Donegan crawled into the saddle, following the soldiers out the main gate and down the northern cut of the Sullivant Hills. They reached the valley of Peno Creek near the foot of Massacre Hill.
Funny, what difference a month will make, Donegan thought as he stood shivering in the wind on that gray slope at first light inking off the eastern plains. The snow had come and covered everything. No man would know what happened on this ground—had he not seen it for his own eyes.
By the time they were struggling out of the Peno drainage, it had grown clear to Donegan they were not going to make it on horseback. The animals were floundering too badly, swimming through the drifts. He had suggested a halt to Graham and the others, the four of them huddling within the corral of their animals, stomping their boots, stuffing mittened hands under their armpits, teeth chattering beneath the shrill keening of a wolfish wind slicing off the Big Horns themselves.
“Fellas,” Donegan began, “no sense in trying to push these animals any farther. We’ll move faster, and stay warmer to boot—we march north on foot.”
“On f-foot?” Grant stammered.
He nodded. “We won’t flounder in the deep stuff, where it’s piled in the ravines and against the lee of every hillock,” Seamus explained.
“All right,” Graham agreed, nodding. “Suppose we do march on foot. What the hell we gonna do with our mules? You’re not fixing to leave that big brute of yours behind, are you now?”
Donegan glanced back at the quivering sides of the gray, the ice glazed round its nostrils as steamy mist exploded with each breath exhaled. “He’s going back too.”
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